


the biggest con in history

by dreamtiwasanarchitect



Category: Trust (TV 2018)
Genre: A Dash of Primo/Paul (If You Squint), Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, Amnesia, And Now For Something Completely Unhinged, But Easily Ignored if Not Your Thing, Crack Fic Is in the Eye of the Beholder, Drinking, Drug Use, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29666571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtiwasanarchitect/pseuds/dreamtiwasanarchitect
Summary: Paolo is a young man with no memory and a strong resemblance to the lost heir to Getty Oil. Primo is an opportunistic conman. And Leonardo is So Done.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 15





	the biggest con in history

**Author's Note:**

> Is it because Trust is coming to Disney+? Is it because it’s day 350-something of the global pandemic and I’ve lost touch with reality? Is it because Paul is sort of modern royalty and Primo is basically a conman and this AU/fusion actually makes _perfect sense_? Who’s to say.

“Get out!” Jutta screamed.

Paolo stumbled backward into the street. He only barely managed to catch his duffel before it smacked him in the head. 

“You’re done freeloading off of us, Paolo!” she yelled. Martine stood just a step behind her, arms crossed.

“Come on,” Paolo entreated. “I didn’t know—” 

“You didn't know Berto would want repayment for all the coke he gave you?” Marcello asked scathingly.

“I thought we made a fair trade,” Paolo insisted. “My paintings for the coke.”

“How much do you think a painting is worth, Paolo?” 

“I don’t know! I just thought—shit, I don’t know.” He bit at his lip. With the life he’d led, he wasn’t too proud to beg. “Look, I’ll make it up however I can, okay?” He swallowed. “You know I don’t have anywhere else to go.” 

Jutta snorted, Marcello shook his head, and Martine wouldn’t meet his eyes. That one hurt the most—she had agreed to marry him two nights ago, and yeah, they were a little high then, but not _that_ high. 

When he realized appealing to his so-called-friends’ better natures wasn’t working, Paolo threw the strap of the duffel over his shoulder. “Fine! Have a great fucking life.” He turned to go, half-expecting Martine to come running after him. She didn’t.

He headed down the street with no particular destination in mind. He’d been living in the shitty flat with Marcello, Jutta, and Martine for the past year; before that, he lived with some other people who also claimed to be his friends, until they too kicked him out; and before that he was at the children’s home for as long as he could remember, until he aged out two years ago. 

Even though Paolo was twenty, he could only remember back to when he was fourteen—to the day he woke up at in the hospital with no memories of how he got there or even who he was. 

For awhile, the doctors ran tests and tried alternative medicines and waited for his memory to come back, but Paolo’s mind remained a blank slate when it came to his personal history. No one could explain it, and eventually they gave up trying.

They sent him to live in the children’s home. It wasn’t the bleakest possible orphanage experience, but even without his memories, fourteen-year-old Paolo still knew he deserved better—a mom, a dad, or at least some type of family that loved him, and clothes that hadn’t been worn by five other people previously. 

There was only one thing Paolo remembered: _London. Together in London._

He didn’t know what it meant—and neither did the doctors—but after six years of being a nobody and currently with nowhere to live, maybe it was worth trying to find out. 

He walked along the piazza, careful to duck his head as he passed Berto’s restaurant, because he wouldn’t put it past the man to take some fingers as repayment for debt. Paolo stopped in front of the statue street performer who always kept post in the spot right across from the fountain. He the man had done this same performance for three years, and in a twisted way, he was the closest thing Paul had for a friend—back when Paul was newly kicked out of the children’s home and wandering the streets in search of a place to stay, the man had broken character for a moment to point him in the right direction of a squat.

“Hey,” Paolo said. “I need some quick cash to get out of here.” The statue man only blinked, which was normal. 

“I’m going to London,” Paolo continued. “I think my family might be there, and I’m going to look for them. Do you know anyone hiring for fast jobs? I’ll do whatever.”

The performer didn’t move for a long moment. His painted face was implacable, his every muscle frozen, and Paolo wondered if his luck—if it could be called that—had run out.

Then the still of the statue rippled, and the man swung his arm to point to a small, sketchy-looking cinema just up ahead.

“Thanks, man,” Paolo told him and jogged off. 

The roll-up door of the cinema was pulled shut. Paolo knocked and got no response, so he heaved it open himself, figuring he had nothing to lose. He stepped into the empty foyer, glancing around for a ticket-taker or any other signs of life, and found none. There were three theaters, but only one was playing a movie.

Drawn in by the flashing of the screen, Paolo made his way down the theater aisle. There was no sound playing on the film, so he watched the swords clash silently as the gladiators battled. It felt so familiar to him in a way almost nothing ever had—at least, nothing he could remember. He stepped up on to the dais and sat down to watch, entranced. 

———

When they returned to the theater, it wasn’t empty. There was a willowy figure sitting cross-legged up on the screen platform. Their next appointment—audition, as Leonardo would put it—wasn’t due to arrive for another half-hour. Primo glanced at Leonardo, snaking his hand to pull his gun from the inside pocket of his jacket. Leonardo nodded and did the same.

They stepped forward, slinking down the theater aisle as silently as they could. Primo caught a glimpse of the boy’s—the young man’s—face. It was beautiful. He stared up at the screen, eyes wide and mouth open. The motion of the film reflected the light of his blue eyes and made flames dance in his red hair.

So he was pretty—he still shouldn’t have been there.

“Oi!” Primo called.

The boy—the man—started. “Shit,” he said, and pushed a hand through his long, wavy hair. “You scared me, man.” He smiled nervously, revealing a mouthful of large, straight, white teeth. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Primo asked, already impatient. 

“Paolo,” said the stranger, looking unconcerned. He uncrossed his legs and dangled them over the platform as Primo and Leonardo drew closer. 

Annoyed at Paolo’s nonchalance, Primo gestured with his gun. “And what are you doing here, huh?”

Paolo raised his hands, finally seeming appropriately admonished, though there was still not as much fear in his eyes as Primo preferred to strike. “Um. I heard that someone here was hiring for a job?” Paolo spoke with a heavy American accent, but his Italian was otherwise perfect. 

“Not us,” Leonardo told him shortly. “Get out.”

Paolo hopped from the platform as the screen flashed behind him, and suddenly—

“Wait,” Primo said. 

He began to circle around Paolo, who frowned. “Uh, what are you—”

“Shh,” Primo said, pocketing his gun. “Don’t speak.” He took in the fiery hair, the pointed chin, the gangly limbs. Paolo was shabbily dressed in ripped and faded bell-bottom jeans and a worn tie-dyed t-shirt, and his hair was far too long, but if Primo used his imagination, he could almost see it. 

“Anyone ever told you that you look like the missing Getty boy?” Primo asked him.

Paolo blinked. “What?”

Leonardo hissed, “ _What?_ ” 

Primo pulled out the photo he’d been keeping in his jacket out and held it up next to Paolo’s face. The photo was of fourteen-year-old John Paul Getty III, the news print wrinkled and faded from months in Primo’s pocket. Leonardo stared, skepticism written in all the many lines (God, he was getting old, Primo thought) of his face. 

“No,” Paul said, shaking his head. “No way, man—I’m not a billionaire, I just need some money to get out of here. I’m trying to get to London. I heard you were looking to hire—”

“Then you heard wrong,” Primo told him curtly. “We are looking for the missing Getty. If you’re not him, get out.”

But Paolo hesitated. “Well. I mean. I don’t remember who I am,” he said in a rush. “If—if I don’t remember who I am, I guess—who’s to say I’m not him?” He blinked at them as if looking for encouragement.

Primo threw a smirk Leonardo’s way. “Not us.”

“And…if I’m not him, they’ll know, right? And it’s just an honest mistake.” 

“Yes, yes,” Primo said. “And if you are him…” 

“I have a family,” Paolo said breathily, sounding a little awed at the prospect. Leonardo shot Primo another look, even sharper this time. 

“Either way, you get to London,” Primo said.

“Excuse us,” Leonardo said suddenly, and tugged Primo back up the aisle until they were out of earshot. “Are you crazy?” he murmured. “What are you doing?”

“He can pass for Getty,” Primo said. “You have to see it. We won’t find anyone better.” They had spent the last four months auditioning Getty heirs. They’d seen more than a hundred young men (and in a few notable instances, some not-so-young men). None of them came even close to being convincing. 

“You sound as crazy as he does,” Leonardo snapped.

“Don’t worry, old man. We clean him up a little, teach him a few things, and soon we’ll have the millions in reward money that his grandfather has promised, yes?”

Leonardo sighed—like he didn’t agree, but was painfully aware he couldn’t change Primo’s mind. “All right,” he said, defeated. 

Primo grinned and walked back toward Paolo. “Well?” He held out his hand.

“Right. Okay. Let’s do it,” Paolo said, and he took it. 

———

The next day, despite all his many reservations, Leonardo got the three of them on a flight to London. Through the boarding process, Paolo seemed unfazed by the wonder of air travel.

“Have you flown before?” Leonardo asked him as they took their seats—Primo at the window, Leonardo at the aisle, and Paolo in the middle. 

“I don’t know,” Paolo said.

Leonardo frowned at him. “How could you not know?”

Paolo shrugged. “I woke up in a hospital when I was fourteen,” he said without emotion. “And I didn’t remember anything.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I mean. I really could be the Getty heir.”

“You are,” Primo told him pointedly. His ability to believe his own bullshit never failed to amuse Leonardo. 

“Sure,” Paolo said, sounding far less bought-in. 

“Well,” Leonardo said bracingly. “Perhaps if we review a few things you will remember, yes?”

Paolo nodded as the plane began to lift off. Primo settled into his seat, sunglasses pulled down over his eyes. 

Leonardo pulled several art textbooks from his luggage. “Here,” he said, passing one to Paolo.

“Um. How is this gonna help me remember?”

“Getty Sr.—your grandfather,” Leonardo corrected himself through slightly clenched teeth, “he is an art lover. He’s building an entirely new museum in America. Perhaps you remember looking at any of these works with him, hm?”

Paolo clearly didn’t think much of this strategy, but he cracked open the book and let his eyes trail over the images, skimming the words.

“You know how to read, yes?” Leonardo asked.

“Yeah,” Paolo said. “I know how to read and I know what planes are. I lost my memories, that’s all. I’m not stupid.”

Leonardo held up his hands defensively. “All right, I was only asking.”

Paolo flipped through the pages, then paused suddenly, lingering on a particular piece. Leonardo craned his neck to see what caught his gaze. It was Carvaggio— _The Crucifixion of Saint Peter_. 

For a moment, Leonardo felt his hopes rise, ridiculous as it was. “Do you remember something?” he asked, trying not to sound too excited. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Primo shift in his seat, suddenly paying very close attention.

Paolo frowned, still staring at the painting in the book. “I don’t—I don’t know.” He rubbed at his forehead. “I remember—I don’t _remember_ anything. I just…I guess it just made me feel something.”

“Well,” Leonardo said fairly, “it is art. I believe that’s the point.” 

“Yeah…” Paolo remained transfixed until the stewardess arrived with the beverage cart. Primo asked for champagne and Paolo followed suit, while Leonardo requested coffee. 

“This is cool,” Paolo said, closing the book and pulling his knees to his chest. He drained his flute in two large gulps and began to tap his fingers against it in an antsy rhythm. Leonardo’s eye twitched. 

Primo’s mouth formed an unhappy line. “Put your glass on your tray table and stop fucking around,” he told Paolo.

Paolo looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. “You really think I’m a billionaire?”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t boss me around.”

Leonardo smothered his laugh in the sleeve of his cardigan as Primo scowled and snatched the glass from Paolo’s hand. Paolo flopped back in his seat dramatically and glared at Primo, but within minutes he gave up reopened the art book. 

The coffee was weak, and Leonardo found himself dozing off a few minutes later. He didn’t fight it, figuring he’d need to be as rested as he could be to deal with any further hare-brained ideas from Primo.

He jolted into wakefulness as the plane descended. Next to him, Paolo was leaned over Primo’s lap, watching as the buildings and streets below grow larger and larger. He turned his face to Primo’s—only inches apart—as he pointed at something. Paolo grinned, and Primo’s lips tugged into something resembling a smile. 

For the hundredth time, Leonardo was struck by what a terrible idea this was. 

———

Leonardo and Paolo—now Paul, Primo corrected himself—were already set up at the the little flat they planned to lease for the next month (and maybe more) while they attempted to secure a meeting with old man Getty. Based on what they had heard, it would be easier to get an audience with the Queen.

Primo was headed to the flat himself after picking up dinner (fish and chips, disgusting but cheap) for all of them and new clothes for Paul, who needed to stop dressing like he was fresh out of the squat, even though that was probably true. As Primo left the takeaway place, he had the feeling someone was following him, something he had a bit of a sixth sense for. After several city blocks, he paused before crossing the street, glancing over his shoulder as casually as he could.

He was right. Primo clocked the guy straight away—sturdy build, strange hat. The man didn’t look like proper British law enforcement, but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t tasked with bringing Primo to someone’s version of justice. 

Careful not to speed up until the last possible second, Primo veered to the right and threw himself in the middle of a throng of pub-goers. He let himself get swept up in their wake, and after following along for several block, he broke away down cramped alley. Though he was satisfied he’d managed to lose the man, Primo avoided all the major streets he could until he arrived at the flat. 

He let himself in to find Leonardo and Paul on the sunken, dingy couch. Paul was taking up three-quarters of it, laying down with his legs dangling over the couch arm and a hand pressed to his forehead. Leonardo was sitting as close to the opposite arm as he could, as if he were afraid of Paul’s wild hair grazing his thigh. 

“Try it again,” Leonardo urged Paul.

“Fuck.” Paul curled the hand on his forehead into a fist and beat it between his eyes. “Okay. Okay. Uncle George, uncle Ronald, um, uncle Gordon, my dad, John Paul, and…” His eyes screwed shut in concentration.

“Uncle Timothy,” Leonardo said. “But you wouldn’t remember him even if you had your memory. He died when you were very young.”

“He must’ve been young too, though?”

Leonardo nodded, solemn. “Only twelve.” 

“What happened?”

“A brain tumor,” Leonardo told him.

Paul frowned. “Didn’t he have, like, the best doctors? Since Getty is so rich?”

Leonardo shrugged. “All I know is that Getty Sr. did not attend his son’s funeral.”

Paul arched his neck to look at Leonardo. “Seriously?”

Leonardo nodded.

“He sounds like kind of a dick,” Paul said. 

“When you have money, you can be a dick,” Primo said from the rickety kitchen table. “I brought food.”

“You _shouldn’t_ , though,” Paul insisted, but he followed Leonardo to join Primo in the kitchen.

After they finished eating, Primo licked the grease from his fingers and brought out his other purchase. He held it up to Leonardo for examination.

“Hm,” Leonardo said, eyeing the brandy. 

“What else are we doing all night, huh?” Primo stood to rummage through the cupboards. He found three mugs, all of them chipped, but still capable of holding liquid.

He poured a measure of brandy for each of them. “Salut,” he said.

“Cheers,” Paul said, grinning. Leonardo mumbled, but he clinked his mug against both Primo’s and Paul’s.

For awhile they drank in silence, until Leonardo became tipsy and red-faced and started telling Paul about his goats. Paul was either genuinely interested or a very good actor, and Primo hoped it was the latter. 

It wasn’t even midnight when Leonardo pushed his chair out and stood. “Bed, for me,” he said, and shuffled off into one of the two bedrooms. 

Paul glanced over at Primo, something mischievous playing in his eyes. “I don’t ever go to bed before he one or two,” he said, almost like he was bragging about it. 

“Very good, Getty,” Primo told him, not bothering to hide his condescension. 

Paul scowled. “Don’t call me that. It’s weird enough that you’re calling me Paul.” His cheeks were a little flushed, probably just from the alcohol. 

“I’ll call you whatever I want,” Primo said lazily, and Paul pouted. Primo ignored him and dug around in his pocket for a moment before his fingers closed around the baggie. He pulled it out and dangled it in front of Paul. 

“This what keeps you up all night, Paul?”

Paul’s shoulders raised a little defensively, as if he had to justify his drug use to Primo, of all people. “Sometimes,” he admitted, almost coy with the way he looked up from under his lashes.

Primo put a measure on his finger and extended it to Paul, who leaned in to snort it after only a second’s hesitation.

“Good?”

“Yeah, good,” Paul said, sniffling. 

Primo shook out another hit. He offered it to Paul again, but pulled his finger away at the last minute. Grinning, he took the hit for himself. 

Paul giggled. “This is how I got kicked out of my last place, you know.”

Primo raised an eyebrow as he rubbed at his gums.

“I owed some restaurant owner. I thought I was paying him back with my paintings. Guess not. Anyway. My roommates threw me out, ‘cause I guess the restaurant guy had, like, mob connections, and they were freaked out.” 

“So that’s why you’re here? Nowhere else to go?” Primo poured himself another brandy. 

“I mean—that’s part of it, sure. But.” Paul shrugged. “I guess every lonely kid probably hopes they have a rich family looking for them, or some fairytale crap like that, you know?” 

Primo only knew about broken liquor bottles and knuckles on his cheekbone, but Paul’s eyes were wide and sad, so he nodded like he knew what Paul was on about, anyway. 

———

The next day Leonardo shook Paolo awake at an hour he could tell was unbearably early. A glimpse at the clock confirmed it was only ten in the morning.

Leonardo threw the bags Primo had returned with yesterday onto the bed. “New clothes for you,” Leonardo told him. “No one will believe you are a Getty looking like that.” He glared at Paul’s t-shirt like it had personally wronged him.

“Cool,” Paul said, fighting a yawn. “Thanks.” He waited for Leonardo to leave, but Leonardo only stood there, clearly expecting Paolo to move into action—but what action, Paolo didn’t know.

“Come on,” Leonardo said, and made an impatient flapping gesture. “Get up, try them on.” He waited, arms crossed, until Paolo crawled out of bed. Once he was alone again, Paolo stripped out of his ratty clothes and started pulling everything from the shopping bags, assembling the outfits as best he could.

He stepped out into the small living area dressed in the first ensemble. Leonardo perched on one of the arms of the couch while Primo sat dead in the middle of it. He was only wearing an undershirt, and he had a blanket pulled over his lap. Paolo hadn’t given it any thought last night, but he supposed there were only two bedrooms, and Primo had to sleep somewhere, though he was a little surprised Primo would settle for the couch. 

“Well?” Paolo spread his arms. “How does it look?”

“A little big in the shoulders,” Leonardo said thoughtfully.

“No, no,” Primo said, waving a dismissive hand. “It looks good.” His voice was still scratchy with sleep, and something about his general demeanor gave Paolo the impression he was equally displeased with the early wake-up call. 

“Next one,” Primo ordered.

Though he still didn’t appreciate the man bossing him around, Paolo dutifully went back into the bedroom to change. The process repeated itself for three more outfits, Leonardo nitpicking each one only to be overruled by Primo’s approval.

The last outfit was a full suit. Paolo stepped out of the bedroom and got an approving nod from Leonardo, but Primo’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, and the blanket fell to the floor, revealing Primo’s mostly-naked lower half. Either he forgot he was only wearing underwear, or he didn’t care. Paolo couldn’t help noticing how thick his thighs were. He stalked forward until he was only an inch away from Paolo.

Primo reached out and adjusted Paolo’s bowtie, which couldn’t have been more than fractionally askew. 

“Good,” Primo said, surveying Paolo critically. Their eyes met, and Primo nodded. “Yes. Good.” 

As close as they were, Paolo could smell cigarette smoke and last night’s brandy leaking from Primo’s pores. It should have been disgusting, but Paolo kind of liked it. It was starting to seem familiar, at least, which was novel. There was a tenseness in Primo’s jaw, and his crazy eyes were as sharp as ever under heavy lids. Paolo was reminded of when they met—the way Primo circled him, gaze intent and assessing, only now it felt like Primo was looking for something different. 

“Now go change before you muss it up,” Leonardo told Paolo, and whatever weighty thing was lingering in the air between Paolo and Primo dissipated. 

After Paolo changed, Leonardo spent the rest of the day teaching him about (and then quizzing him on) the oil business. It all sounded soul-sucking to Paolo, but it was somehow easier to keep straight than the names of his maybe-uncles and possible-dad. 

Still, Paolo’s head throbbed by the time Leonardo finally declared they were done studying for the day, even though it was already evening. Primo was back from wherever he’d slinked off to mid-afternoon, and he looked up from the newspaper he was reading on the couch. 

“Put your suit back on,” he told Paolo.

“Again? Why?”

“We’re going out.” 

Paolo waited for more of an explanation, but none came, so he sighed and left to change. When he resurfaced from his room, Primo and Leonardo were similarly dressed, though their suits were more worn than his.

“Wait,” Paolo said, suddenly nervous. “Are we—is it—now?”

“No, no,” Leonardo reassured him. “Just a cultural outing.”

“Cultural outing?” Paolo asked, but the other two men were already stepping out the door. 

Twenty minutes of walking and four tube stops later, Paolo found himself standing next to Primo and Leonardo outside of a theater—but not the type of theater he’d met them in. The building was all classical construction, heavy stone and a bright-yet-tasteful marquee advertising—

“An opera?” Paolo said, mouth a little agape. “We’re going to the opera?”

“Don’t make fun,” Leonardo warned. “Primo loves the opera.”

Paolo turned to stare at Primo. “Seriously, dude?”

Primo cuffed him on the back of the head. “Let’s go. We’ll be late.”

The good thing about _Oedipus rex_ , in Paolo’s opinion, was that it only lasted about an hour. He didn’t get what anyone would like about it, much less understand how it spoke to someone like Primo, but he learned that coughing during the quiet parts and clapping between movements were cardinal operatic sins. Primo glared at him viciously each time. 

“Well?” Leonardo asked after it was done and they started to head away from the theater. “What did you think?”

“Uh,” Paolo said, searching desperately for something complimentary to say. He was spared from lying when Primo suddenly stopped walking in the middle of the street. 

He and Leonardo exchanged a quick look that Paolo couldn’t decipher. “Split up?” Leonardo asked in a low voice.

Primo gave him a tiny nod, and then they both took off in opposite directions, leaving Paolo standing there, confused and clueless. After a moment of indecision, he ran after Primo, which somehow seemed like the safest option. 

It took a few minutes, but eventually Paolo was close enough to grab at the back of Primo’s suit jacket. “Man, what the fuck—” 

“Fuck!” Primo hissed, spinning to face him. He dragged Paolo down an alley “Why did you follow me? What part of splitting up don’t you understand, huh?”

“You never actually told me to do that! I don’t get it, what’s going on?”

“We’re being followed,” Primo said, eyes glinting with danger. “We need to lose the tail.”

“Followed? By who?” 

Primo clapped one of his enormous hands over Paolo’s mouth, making it even more difficult for him to catch his breath, and tugged him close. “Shh.” 

For awhile, all Paolo could hear was the beating of Primo’s heart. He was very warm. Then, several feet away, he heard boots clicking on the pavement, the sound of feet taking careful, deliberate steps. 

At the end of the alley, a shadow appeared. Paolo nearly stopped breathing. He didn’t know what he was meant to be afraid of, but he was afraid all the same. 

He counted Primo’s heartbeats. One, two, three. The figure kept walking. Primo’s grip loosened marginally, and he let out a long breath. “Come on,” he said, and he started running in the opposite direction, pulling Paolo along by his wrist. 

“I don’t get it,” Paolo said as they rushed down the stairs of the underground. “Who was that? Why is he after us?”

“Who knows,” Primo said. “Don’t worry about it. Just fucking listen next time.” 

Paolo crossed his arms. “I do listen. You’re just a terrible communicator.”

Primo didn’t deign to respond, and Paolo sulked the whole ride back. 

———

When Paul was out of earshot, Primo told Leonardo that the man from the opera had followed him before. Whoever he was, Primo said, he wasn’t giving up. They needed to meet with Getty, and soon. 

Leonardo agreed, even excepting the mystery man who was chasing them down. He had a wife and child, after all—he couldn’t spend months in London working on one of Primo’s stupid scams. After a week of calling in favors, he finally secured a meeting at Sutton Place.

The Getty residence was opulent beyond Leonardo’s imagining. While the old man was legendarily miserly, he’d clearly spared no expense on his home—or at least, that was what Leonardo thought until he spotted the payphone in the hallway. Primo and Paul were both looking around in amazement (though Primo tried to mask his awe with his usual smug nonchalance, Paul made no effort to hide his) and didn’t notice.

“We will be meeting with Penelope, your grandfather’s primary girlfriend,” Leonardo told Paul, who was fidgeting in his seat. Leonardo still wished they would have taken in the shoulders on that jacket. 

Paul frowned. “I thought we were going to see old man Getty himself. What the hell is a primary girlfriend, and why do we have to meet with her?”

“Nobody gets near him without convincing her first,” Leonardo said.

“Wait—what? You didn’t tell me I had to _prove_ I was Paul!” 

Primo sighed and pocketed his sunglasses. “Listen—”

“Sure, I can show up, I can dress the part, but you want me to what—lie?” Paul stared at them like they’d asked him to kill his own dog. 

Leonardo gave Primo a glance that he hoped very plainly said, you deal with this.

“You don’t know it’s a lie, do you?” Primo reasoned, voice low and soothing. “It could be true.” Paul shook his head and stood up, but Primo grabbed his arm when he tried to walk away. “Hey. You want to find out who you are? This is how!” 

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment. Finally: “Fine,” Paul said. He shook Primo’s hand off his arm and sat back down. 

They waited in an angry silence for another ten minutes, until finally the door to the study opened.

A stately-looking woman around Leonardo’s age stood at the door. She eyed him and Primo suspiciously, but when her eyes fell on Paul, she let out a small gasp.

“Little Paul,” she murmured, staring. “Is it really you?”

Paul shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I…I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Penelope frowned but motioned him forward. “Come in, then, and tell me your story.” 

Leonardo and Primo stood to join them, but she gave them a pointed look and shut the door in their faces, leaving them to keep a nervous vigil. 

“It’s him, you know,” Primo said, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“He _is_ the missing Getty.” 

“We don’t know that,” Leonardo said, though his voice held no conviction. Over the past weeks, he’d also become increasingly certain of Paul’s true identity. They’d set out to mine for silver and struck gold instead. What were the chances?

Twenty minutes passed before the door opened again. Penelope came out holding Paul’s arm. He was wide-eyed, which wasn’t unusual, but his face was strangely pale. 

“I’m taking him to his grandfather,” Penelope announced. Leonardo and Primo could only watch she led Paul up the stairs. He threw them a nervous look over his shoulder, and Leonardo nodded encouragingly. Next to him, Primo was still as a statue. 

———

Paolo tried to stop his hands from shaking as he followed Penelope up several flights of stairs. The house was fucking wild, and it still wasn’t the craziest part of his day. 

“How many rooms are in this place?” he asked.

“Seventeen,” she said, like that was a normal answer. 

They finally arrived at an ornate set of doors. “This is your grandfather’s study,” Penelope told him.

“Oh,” Paolo said. “Um, cool.”

Penelope rapped on the door three times in quick succession. A minute later, a tall man with tawny skin and silver hair answered. 

“Thank you, Bullimore,” Penelope said briskly as she shepherded Paolo in. Like everything else in this house, the room was enormous. A not-insignificant part of it was dominated by a large model building that looked like a Roman temple. 

Behind a giant desk was the man who could only be J. Paul Getty. His thin white hair was immaculately combed, and the look in his cold blue eyes said that he already knew everything he cared to about Paolo.

A second man, at least several decades younger than Getty Sr., stood at attention next the desk. He was wearing a cowboy hat, which felt at-odds with the general vibe of Sutton Place.

“Paul,” Penelope said. “I believe I’ve found your grandson. Or, rather, that he’s found his way to us.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Paolo felt like he was meant to say something, but his head was completely empty. He tugged at the cuff of his sleeve and waited. 

Getty’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you believe that?”

“For God’s sake, Paul, look at him!”

“All I see,” Getty said slowly, “is a con artist looking to make a quick fortune. The men he’s here with certainly are.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a nice expression—it was more the look of a hunter who’d caught something in his trap. 

Paolo blinked. “What?”

“Chase here—” Getty nodded to the man in the cowboy hat “—has been following them since their arrival, and tracking them even before that. A couple of mafiosos have been _auditioning_ people for this role for months.” The old man smirked a little. “They were bound to cast someone good in the part eventually.”

“I—I didn’t audition,” Paolo said dumbly. Getty ignored him, so he looked at Penelope, willing her to believe him. 

“Paul,” she began.

“You’ve allowed yourself to be taken in.” Getty’s voice suddenly raised as he pounded a fist on the desk. “I told you, Penelope, you were not to waste my time with this!” 

Penelope’s face was stony. “Come,” she said after a moment, and touched Paolo’s arm. He followed her out of the study and back to the foyer were Primo and Leonardo still waited. 

“Look, I didn’t—”

“Wait here for a few moments, won’t you, Paul?” Penelope asked. Without waiting for a response, she set off down the hallway, walking out of sight.

“What happened?” Primo demanded.

Slowly, Paolo turned to face him. “You—you lied to me.”

“What?” 

“You lied to me, you made me think—you made me think _you thought_ I was really him.” 

Primo’s eyebrow raised an inch. “I do think that,” he said. 

“No you don’t, don’t fucking lie to me! He told me—he told me you were auditioning people—for months!”

Paolo saw the moment Primo put two and two together—and realized that the man who followed them from the opera was sent by Getty. 

“So?” Primo asked viciously. “So what?”

“ _So what?_ You pulled me into your con, you, you—”

Leonardo raised a hand. “Paul—”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear it, okay?”

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Penelope had returned. She fixed Primo and Leonardo with an icy gaze. 

“I think you gentlemen had best leave,” she said, and her tone was so final that they moved to obey. 

Face burning and eyes downcast, Paolo made to follow them, already trying to think of where he could go next, but Penelope stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her in surprise.

“Paul,” she said. “I’ve been in touch with your mother. She’s coming here as soon as she can.” 

Paolo stared at her for a moment before he looked back down the hall to Primo and Leonardo’s retreating backs. “What?” 

“Your mother, Gail. She’s on her way.”

“But—but he said—”

“I know what your grandfather said. But I believe you are our Little Paul, and your mother will know it, too.”

At the main entrance, the butler had opened the door. Primo turned, and for a second he and Paolo locked eyes. Then he was gone. 

Paolo spent the next several hours waiting awkwardly in Penelope’s study, which he’d thought was huge until he saw Getty’s. She offered him tea and biscuits, which he accepted, and tried to make small talk, but Paolo was too busy stewing in a mix of nerves and anger to chat much.

Finally, they heard footsteps in the hall. Penelope threw the study door open, and a second later, a pretty woman with red hair appeared. She looked at Paul, and her face crumpled.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Paul, it’s _you_.”

When she spoke, Paolo realized it was her voice she’d been hearing in his head all these years: _Together in London._

“Mom,” he breathed. Shakily, he stood from the chair, and the next moment her arms were locked around him as she cried into his neck.

“Paul, my baby,” she sobbed.

Paul realized he was crying, too. “Mom,” he managed to say. “What—what happened?”

“Oh, Paul.” Gail wiped her face, though her eyes still streamed with tears. “You were staying with your father. I should have never left you with him. You were too young, and he—” She cut off, shaking her head, and began again. “His girlfriend, Talitha, overdosed, and he had to leave the country. It wasn’t until he got to London that he called, thinking you were back with me. But you weren’t. We don’t know where you went.”

Paul remembered. He remembered finding Talitha, ethereal, beautiful, still, cold, unmoving, and not breathing on his father’s bed. He remembered his father, red-eyed, sobbing, still high out of his mind, and he remembered the crack of Talitha’s ribs as he tried and failed to resuscitate her. 

“I ran,” Paul said, throat very dry. “I found her, and I couldn’t save her, and I freaked out and I ran.” He swallowed. “Then I woke up in the hospital. And I didn’t remember anything.” 

“Oh, baby.” Gail pulled him back into her arms and held him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She sniffled into his hair. “It’s this family,” she said. “It destroys people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father and I—we were happy. Do you remember? It all changed when we moved to Italy and your father started taking on more responsibility for Getty Oil.”

Dimly, he can recall it—the ringing of the phone, his dad kicking him out of his office, his mom throwing out one-third of the dinner she’d made.

“It drove him crazy,” Gail continued. “And then he lost you, and I—oh, Paul. I was so afraid I’d never see you again.” 

“I’m here,” Paul said. “I found you.” He hugged her back, breathing in her familiar smell.

There was a knock at the door. Penelope had very tactfully disappeared once the crying started, but now she was back.

“Paul,” she said solemnly, “your grandfather would like to speak to you.” 

———

Primo and Leonardo returned to the flat without exchanging a single word. A couple times, Leonardo opened his mouth like he was about to speak, but Primo stopped him with a glare.

Primo’s blood boiled. What were the odds that they found _the_ actual Getty heir, only to be cheated out of the reward money? 

Since there was nothing else to be said or done, they began to pack. 

“Primo,” Leonardo said quietly. He was holding Paul’s tie-dyed tee. “What shall we do with his things?” 

Primo shrugged. “Leave them. He won’t need them anymore.” Still, his gaze lingered on the shirt, and he had a strange urge to snatch it from Leonardo and stuff it into his own bag.

Someone pounded on the door.

Primo’s eyes snapped to Leonardo’s, and they both pulled their guns. Primo cracked the door open to find the man who’d been following them on the other side.

The man took off his hat and held it in his hands. “Sir,” he said. “I’ve been sent by Mr. Getty. Can I come in?”

Primo scanned him for a weapon but saw none. The man was, however, holding two suitcases in each hand. Primo nodded and moved to let him enter. 

“Fletcher Chase,” the man said by way of introduction. Primo and Leonardo said nothing, and when it became clear they weren’t about to, the man nodded and set the suitcases on the table. 

“Mr. Getty would like to thank you for finding his grandson. As promised, here’s the reward.”

“He believes Paul is his grandson now?” Leonardo asked.

“Yessir,” Chase said in his strange American accent. “Boy’s momma came and made dead certain of it.” 

Primo opened one of the suitcases. Neat stacks of bills stared back at him. He huffed. “Why did Getty have you watching us?”

Chase raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Getty is a wealthy man. Wealthy men can be mighty easy to take advantage of.”

“That’s right,” Primo said viciously. “Tell your boss the asking price for his grandson just went up.”

Chase looked at Primo like he was slow. “Sir, we already _have_ his grandson.”

“And I have a story,” Primo said. “I have a story about an old man whose money was more important to him than his grandson. You think the papers would like it, hm?”

Chase’s face was blank as he considered this. “They might,” he allowed. “What’s the price of you keeping this story to yourself?”

“Another five million. And I want it brought to me in Rome.”

“I will let Mr. Getty know. Pleasure doin’ business.” Chase nodded and left. 

Leonardo shook his head. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us more money,” Primo said, careful to keep his tone casual. “So. When is the next flight?” 

———

“Young man,” Getty said by way of greeting. “It seems I spoke too quickly before.”

“Um. That’s okay. Sir.” 

The old man leaned forward, hands clasped together on his desk. “You see, I’m looking for someone with a knack for business to leave as my successor to Getty Oil. My sons—your addict father included—have all proved to be disappointments. None of them have anything I haven’t given to them, and none of them understand what it takes to run a business like Getty Oil.” 

Getty paused, assessing Paul with predatory eyes. “But you. You may have met up with conmen but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a knack for business. Killer instinct. You kept yourself alive for all those years when you had nothing, not even your memory. You may just be the Getty I’ve been looking for in more ways than one.” He grinned. “What do you say?” 

For a moment, Paul was dumbstruck, then he considered it. Maybe if he was still Paolo—the boy without a past who’d do anything for a future—it would have been an appealing offer. No more sleeping on the street, no more slumming in squats. But with his memory back, all he could hear is the ringing of that fucking phone. There were worse things than being poor, Paul thought. 

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

Getty frowned, eyes narrowed. “Take the night. Sleep on it.”

Paul’s protests were waved away as Bullimore reappeared and escorted him to one of the mansion’s seventeen rooms. His mother was (allegedly) in one of the others, but Paul had a bad feeling she’d been shown the door. 

“May I assist you with anything else, master Paul?”

Paul opened his mouth to say no, but at the last moment he changed his mind. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “Could I get a notepad and a pen?”

“Right away, sir.”

Five minutes later, Paul sat cross-legged on the bed, trying to find the words for everything he wanted to say. In the end, he kept it short.

 _Together in Rome?_ He scribbled down an address, a date, and a time, then tore the page from the notepad. He folded it in thirds and wrote his mother’s name on the front before placing it on his pillow. 

Then he wrenched open the window and climbed out. Luckily for him, he was only on the second floor, and the only thing the drop to the ground wounded was his pride. He kept low as he hurried through the grounds and snuck out the front gate. It took a long time before he found a main road, and even longer before he found someone who let him hitch into the city. Once he was there, he found his way back to the rented flat and banged on the door.

There was no answer. He wasn’t surprised. For all he knew, Primo and Leonardo were already halfway back to Rome. Then again, he’d been lucky so far.

Paul successfully jumped the tube turnstile, and twenty minutes later he was at the airport. He dashed through it, giving a once-over to every guy in a leather jacket and every man with silver hair as he made his way to departures. Then he spotted them standing at the check-in desk, Leonard speaking—pleading—with the man behind it, and Primo standing off to the side, looking haughty as always.

“Hey,” Paul called. 

Primo looked over, and his mouth fell open. They both stepped forward until they’d met each other halfway. 

“Hey,” Paul said again, softer this time. “I’m looking for a way back to Rome.”

Primo stared at him, and for a moment Paul thought Primo was about to tell him to get lost, or, more likely, fuck off—but then Primo jerked his head, and Paul followed him to rejoin Leonardo at the desk, where he had moved on to openly bribing the man behind the counter for two seats on the next flight to Rome. 

He looked at Paul and sighed, though Paul thought there was a fondness to it. “Make that three seats, now,” Leonardo told the man. 

Paul looked at Primo, who winked back. 

An hour later, they took their seats on the plane. 

“I forgot to ask,” Paul said as the wheels lifted off the ground. He looked between Primo and Leonardo. “Did you get your money?”

Primo smirked.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, if you gave this weirdness a try, THANK YOU? I would really, really love to know what you thought, if you bought in and enjoyed or if you are still wondering what the fuck you just read. 


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